


Give Me Your Hand

by wildwinterwitch



Series: Driftwood [3]
Category: Broadchurch, True Love (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Series 1 Episode 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwinterwitch/pseuds/wildwinterwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holly gives Alec something to hold on to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from _People Help the People_ by Birdy.

Give Me Your Hand

She hadn’t wanted to go to the meeting. It was irrational to think that the DI could somehow come to the conclusion that she was a part of this place just based on her presence. Saturdays felt hollow now, but she had work to do. She’d gone to her classroom to tidy it up and get some marking done and to prepare the materials for the next week. As she finished up, she glanced at the clock and realized that the meeting was about to start. She might as well go to see what they had to say. Chances were that the DI wouldn’t even notice her, but she wasn’t ready to go home yet. 

The Assembly Hall filled quickly, but she managed to find herself a seat towards the very back. If there’d been standing room left only, she’d have just gone home. He was working, and somehow it didn’t feel right to watch him. They hadn’t talked much on a personal level, and by mutual silent agreement they had chosen not to discuss the case. Not that she’d have minded if he did, but he’d been out at the beach to get away from it all. After all, he’d sat with his back to the two tents erected over the Site.

The audience began to ask their questions, and his calm and professional answers elicited a low murmur and even more questions and accusations, but he managed to keep the people on his side. Mostly, she felt. Thankfully, no one asked the one question that troubled them all, the question concerned parents had asked her too.

_Are our children safe?_

She ducked her head and stared at the worn cover of her sketchbook, which she’d been holding on her lap like a table. Pulling out her Moleskine and a pen, she sketched, with only a few strokes, an image that popped up into her mind, tore the page from the book — which earned her a few reproachful glances — and folded it in half.

When the meeting was over, she went and gave it to him with a smile. “You might find this helpful,” she said.

He stared at her, his jaw slightly slack.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she explained. “Bye.”

Thankfully, her exit was made easier by someone else approaching him about the case, so she hurried out of the Assembly Hall and took the exit on the far side of the school. The door was locked but yielded to her keys, and she secured it after she’d pushed it closed behind her, taking a few deep breaths of crisp evening air.

-:-

The graphite mug of tea on the beach and the two words scribbled on a scrap of crumpled paper kept him going. The flight of stairs up to his room was steep and long, his grip on the wooden handrail strong as he pushed-pulled himself upwards. That mug of tea, such a random act of kindness.

He pushed the heavy door open, struggled through the darkened room. It was filled with dark shapes and impenetrable shadows, making the room seem to shift under his feet like a ship on heavy sea.

He’d run out of pills.

“Stupid,” he wanted to mutter, maybe even did. He grabbed the edge of the mirror-fronted cupboard, but didn’t recognise the ashen, sunken face in it. His body was leaden and he was dizzy and nauseous, and… oh to find relief.

He let go.

That mug of tea on the beach.

The crumpled note fluttering beneath the ceramic as the wind tried to pry it free.

There was pain, sharp pain that eclipsed the other, as well as the dizziness and the nausea.

He closed his eyes and felt so much better in the metallic-scented darkness that reached for and pulled him towards it.

_Aye._

-:-

He tightened his grip on the box in his jacket pocket. His head still throbbed and he tried hard not to reach for the cut behind his ear. He’d never been good with bandages or plasters; his fingers wanted to explore, pull, reveal, show what lay underneath. Feel what was there, beneath the thick, rubbery film of liquid plaster they had slathered on him. Instead he ran his fingers over his hair, trying to cover up the small bit — “It _is_ small,” Becca had reassured him — the doctors had shaved off to treat him. It wasn’t that he was vain; no one must know what had happened.

He turned the box in his hand to make sure that it was really there. Of course, they’d wanted him to stay to treat him properly. But he had his chemicals and his case to keep him going. “I must finish this,” he’d insisted, his eyes boring into the young doctor who wouldn’t give up the clipboard with the release papers.

The tissue-like copy of the form was already crumpling in his pocket as he strode along the corridor towards the exit. It was blissfully early, and Becca had offered to share the cab back to the Trader’s Inn. He needed a change of clothes; the collar of his shirt was soaked with blood, the stain darkening, becoming ugly and brown.

“Oh. Hello you.”

He stopped, startled. The Artist.

His hand flew from the box to the inside pocket of his jacket. The folded sheet of paper she’d given him yesterday was still there, neatly folded and, hopefully, unmolested by Becca’s or the paramedics’ inquisitive fingers. Of course they'd only wanted to help.

“What’re ye doing here?” Was he slurring? He needed to pull himself together. He needed what was on the sheet. He needed a good cup of tea. He checked his watch, which they had returned to him along with his wallet and the loose change and used tissue from his pockets. It _was_ early, particularly so for a Sunday morning.

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Seeing a friend. You?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he lied.

“I’m picking up some things for a friend,” she corrected herself. “The nurse finishes her shift soon, so it’s either now or some time next week, when she’s back from a couple of days off.”

He sucked on the inside of his cheek, turned his head to study a poster that caught his attention. When he looked away he couldn’t remember what was on it. “I had a glass of wine too many last night and slipped in the shower. Stupid.”

“Dangerous,” she corrected him. She pointed at the spot behind her ear. Of course she’d seen it when he’d turned his head to look at the poster.

He touched his chest where the inside pocket of his jacket was and felt the paper. “Thanks for the… note.”

A smile lit up her face and he felt a little better. “You like it?”

“Aye.”

They were quiet for a beat, then had to step aside to allow a porter pushing an empty bed past them.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he offered, his gaze following the empty bed. It might be his.

The smile faded quickly, like the sand on the beach loses its lustre when clouds obscure the sun. He checked his watch, helpless, as ever. At least he’d tried. Like last night, when he’d made a right fool of himself. With the gifts, the names. Exposing the Millers’ kindness.

“Thanks,” she whispered, pushing an errant strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I’ve got to…”

“Aye, me too. Back to the station.”

He had a case to keep him going. He wondered what she had.


End file.
